“There’s something I wanted to tell you, Mrs. Zapp—something that’s happened to me. That’s why I was out celebrating last evening and got in so late.” Mr. Wrenn was diffidently sitting in the basement.
“Yes,” dryly, “Ah noticed you was out late, Mist’ Wrenn.”
“You see, Mrs. Zapp, I—uh—my father left me some land, and it’s been sold for about one thousand plunks.”
“Ah’m awful’ glad, Mist’ Wrenn,” she said, funereally. “Maybe you’d like to take that hall room beside yours now. The two rooms’d make a nice apartment.” (She really said “nahs ‘pahtmun’,” you understand.)
“Why, I hadn’t thought much about that yet.” He felt guilty, and was profusely cordial to Lee Theresa Zapp, the factory forewoman, who had just thumped down-stairs.
Miss Theresa was a large young lady with a bust, much black hair, and a handsome disdainful discontented face. She waited till he had finished greeting her, then sniffed, and at her mother she snarled:
“Ma, they went and kept us late again to-night. I’m getting just about tired of having a bunch of Jews and Yankees think I’m a nigger. Uff! I hate them!”
“T’resa, Mist’ Wrenn’s just inherited two thousand dollars, and he’s going to take that upper hall room.” Mrs. Zapp beamed with maternal fondness at the timid lodger.
But the gallant friend of Pinkertons faced her—for the first time. “Waste his travel-money?” he was inwardly exclaiming as he said:
“But I thought you had some one in that room. I heard som—”